


picky

by trailingviolets



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Magical Realism, Marijuana, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning Smoke, past trauma, refeeding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:20:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24835258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trailingviolets/pseuds/trailingviolets
Summary: After years of fighting an eating disorder that makes food taste like emotion, Ben steals his roommate’s cake.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 76
Kudos: 197





	1. platitudes

**Author's Note:**

> tw: mentions of disordered eating/proto eating disorder behavior 
> 
> additionally: mentions of marijuana use
> 
> please, PLEASE take caution if any of your triggers fall under these umbrellas.

Within a week of moving in Rey called him a rare bird, smiling and shaking her head. After he felt stilted, nervous at the prospect of interaction. 

As a rule they only talk on a need to know basis. Except by virtue of living together she has a prime seat to Ben’s oddity.

How he showers multiple times a day to get warm. Picking at his cuticles until they bleed, biting his lip. Wearing baggy jeans to class though it labels him as unprofessional, a step above insubordinate.

How he refuses to eat anything but oyster crackers from the basement vending machine. 

She still invites Ben to the table for dinner. It’s no use trying to explain so he just sits, warmed by the smell of marinara or peanut sauce, the vent of heat from the cracked oven. 

Doling out crackers like casino chips on the placemat, conserving them to last as long as it takes. 

He thinks Rey eats even faster than usual.

She keeps offering bites off her plate, sectioning back spoonfuls of rice without curry, slices of salted watermelon and carrot chips. 

Anything to tempt Ben, and it works. 

His mouth fills with drool. His heartbeat quickens, imagining being fed. Tantalized by each dish that’s more intricate than the last. 

He thinks Rey might be trying out new recipes, using the cookbooks on the counter to see what sticks. 

Except like everyone she grows tired, drifting inevitably away. Over time she breaks off the ritual of their shared meals, eating at the cafeteria or while he’s still at school.

Those nights are the worst. 

Returning home from class to a dark apartment, dishes washed and stacked away. 

\---

As a kid he wasn’t picky. 

More so desperate, termed by adults as a mooch, a vacuum cleaner. For years Ben had the best appetite in his grade. 

He lost it concurrent with the divorce, the day of his eleventh birthday.

Leia emerged late in the afternoon, eyes red. Apologizing for sleeping so long though the blinds were open, the TV blaring CSPAN.

As a diplomat she was good at deflection, at drawing attention away from the unsightly truth. Cheerfully fielding requests from his friends for second helpings of juice and cookies, for a peek into the room where she recorded her briefings.

The menu for the party was kid fare everyone loved, even the parents. Mac and cheese with hotdogs. Instant mashed potatoes and homemade brownies. Peach Crystal Light, grilled corn on the cob. Buttered peas.

Except from the first bite the food was revolting, rotten on his tongue. 

_Mom wanted out._

When Ben puked the adults chalked it up to too much sun at the pool, overexcitement or early puberty. Laughing, pitying him with silver-wrapped presents, promises of trips to the park. 

In the beginning they were sympathetic. Even Han laid a hand on his shoulder, smoothing back his sweaty hair.

Only the scene repeated itself night after night, no matter if Leia made bone broth or cheesecake.

Eventually he stopped eating meals altogether. Learning to subsist off of vile packs of Ensure and mouthfuls of nondescript, storebrand saltines.

The family therapist was the one who betrayed him. Whispering over his head the long-sought diagnosis: anorexia.

That afternoon in the car Han tried to explain. Stumbling through a long, moralless story about his grandfather, genetics and change. 

“We’ll be spending more time together soon,” he even said.

\---

For years Ben was shuttled to the shrink’s beige office like clockwork every Friday. First it was Han who went along, then Luke, then a revolving lineup of distant, harried drivers who dropped him off at the door.

By that time it didn’t matter. Ben knew how to occupy himself.

Pretending to jump light poles along the highway, soaring up and down the wires. Imagining his body flying away, it was so frail.

Imagining a world where people didn’t perpetually lie. Where his mother wasn't so distracted that she lost sight of what mattered. Shaking her head as Ben tried to explain, tearful and painfully honest. 

Saying, _I just don't see how that's possible._

\---

Ben misses the last bus out of campus by mere minutes, stranding him at the terminal. Not even music makes the walk less miserable.

Except-

Two to the left, three down. Rey’s bedroom light is on, her window open to the cold.

He forgot what day it was.

\---

For the college's roommate search Rey supplied less than a paragraph about her family. Stating that her mom died a decade ago, admitting her foster parents were cold comfort. In person she was only a little more forthcoming. 

Going so far as to give a date, November 12th. Apologizing in advance for the resulting fallout.

\---

What she bitterly calls a pity cake is set out on the counter. He knows from experience that Rey iced it with her bare hands. Licking her fingers, shouting along to _Brick by Boring Brick_. 

When she's high Rey has a flair for the dramatic.

Shoving the pan away only to eat in fistfuls after midnight, parked in front of the sink. Wiping viciously at her eyes, smearing frosting everywhere.

Snapping at Ben, _what are you looking at?_

From experience he knows to let it rest. Platitudes are useless even a few years on. For in time denial turns to emptiness, all memory of the past hollowed out by grief. 

It doesn’t get better, just infinitely harder to talk about.

\---

Coconut cake was her mom’s favorite. 

It was Ben’s too, from before. Usually he got stuck with store-bought sheet cake slathered in coconut flakes, which wasn’t remotely the same.

The real thing calls to him. 

Over the years it became a secret perversion, a party trick no one else knew. How he could read the barometer of someone’s emotions just by tasting their food.

He can tell when restaurant spaghetti is cobbled together by an exhausted, underpaid line cook. He's an expert at wine tasting, capable of noting the origin down to the vintner's dark humor.

Usually Ben resents the intrusion. How he gets drawn into another sphere, another world that's harsher and less tenable than his own.

Only this time he goes willingly to the counter, shaking with nerves. Needing to know the depth of Rey’s pain, her indifference to him.

Unprepared he panics, taking a forkful straight from the center. So it’s obvious, impossible to cover up. There's no use trying anyways. As much as Ben reads into things, deflects and covers up his habits, Rey always knows better.

He goes to stand over the trash, already regretting it. Knowing he’ll be down for days, sick, doubled over in the shower- 

Except the cake tastes like pure longing. Like love he's never felt.

Without meaning to, he digs in with both hands. 

Realizing he's starving, hungry like never before. What rested so long as a distant, detached ache turns to anguish, hot tears coursing down his face.

Finally he feels full.

\---

When the cake’s gone Ben can’t help but lick the pan, bent low against the counter. Finding days old ramen to dump on top of the remains, leftover soup still in the can. 

Eyes closed in rapture until he hears Rey’s door creak. 

\---

It’s the worst kind of paranoid hallucination. As a result Rey's pissed, bristling at the sight. It simply can't be. 

Wiry Ben who weighs all of a buck forty ate so much of her food he collapsed. The remains of her cake are smeared on his cheeks, all over the counter and the sink.

His jeans are unbuttoned.

“Are you deranged?” she asks. "Or am I?"

“I got hungry.”

“You’re never hungry. I’ve seen you swallow more gum than food.”

“Gum is mass produced.”

“Okay?”

“I’m sorry. Homemade stuff tastes weird to me.”

“Not my cake. Damn you, Ben. That took hours.”

“I can pay-”

“For the ingredients? That’ll be two hundred dollars. Cash only.”

“No, to make more.”

\---

“Is this a fetish?” she asks after. Holding his hair back, rubbing his shoulders as he pukes. 

Ben shakes his head.

Which puts Rey in the awkward position of wanting to play along, wishing it was.

How many times did she try to make him eat. Like her mother near the end of her run, all he wanted was to be left alone. 

When he's done she goes to the kitchen, swaying a little on her feet. Finn's blunt took the edge off, stretched out the night into manageable sections. Now it’s working against Rey, making everything more difficult.

Still she's able to stir together a cup of peppermint tea, pulling crisp leaves from the stems. Hours ago she bought it as a garnish, hardly expecting it to come to better use.

When she gets back Ben’s slumped on the tile, lost to the sound of her voice. So sick he looks more translucent than pale, veins blue along his arms. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “This is the last thing you need.”

“No, don't. At least I can do something about this.”

She drapes him in an afghan, placing the mug in his hands. Helping him to drink from it in unsteady gulps, watching his throat work. 

He really is handsome.

Rey gets closer, offering tabs of alka seltzer from her palm which he greedily takes, dissolving them in the tea. Chugging it so fast his tongue must burn.

Ben hands back the empty cup. 

After he seems shaky, unsure where to go. Draped in Rey's blanket, looking down at her with the softest eyes.

“Need help?” she asks. 

\---

She’s only seen his room from the hall. Rey had no idea it was so bare, devoid of any discernible taste. Ben doesn’t have posters like a grad student, dirty laundry or dishes strewn across the carpet. 

Of course.

Rey lays him gingerly over the covers. Taking off his boots, his hoodie. Her heart twists when he curls into a ball, huffing out breaths of discomfort. 

“You’ll feel better in the morning,” she tells him. “Just sleep.”

She doesn't leave until he’s out, smiling into the imprint of her hand.

\---

It’s afternoon by the time Ben stumbles to the kitchen, late to the class he's supposed to teach and marked absent from three more.

On the counter is a plate of toast covered in foil, buttered and slathered in strawberry jam. 

A crossed-out note that used to say _fridge_ leads him to a decadent spread of food for the day. There's buttered pasta, fried rice and eggplant parmesan. Peanut butter crackers and kiwi slices. Miniature cartons of yogurt drink.

Each dish is labeled with a number, snacks included. Plotted out for him, spaced evenly so he won’t be sick.

_Too controlling?_ she wrote on the last note, clearly in a rush. _You know what, j_ _ust ignore me._

It’s all he can do not to answer out loud, to tell Rey he physically can't. 

  
\---


	2. raw material

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw below

When she gets home Ben’s waiting by the door, eager to see what she bought. 

Asking-

“How much do I owe you?” like she's keeping score. 

“Nothing,” Rey says. 

Unpacking bags of coconut flakes and chocolate chips, tinted containers of vanilla extract. Raw material for a brownie recipe she saw him staring at on Pinterest, eyes glazed over.

She’s used to Ben’s hesitation. Eyes darting to the side, smile flecked with panic. So afraid of kindness he comes off as conflicted, lost.

Only now his lips press together, his fingers tremble on the counter. It’s the way he flinches moments before he's talked over, insulted for being weak.

“I’m sorry. I assumed because of the notes-”

“You’re not sorry,” she says, taking him by the sleeve. “Because you don’t have to be. I want to do this for you.”

“Rey.”

“So take a shower, and let me.”

\---

Ben’s cash poor. Known for stringing shoelaces through his belt loops, shamelessly digging coupons out of the trash. Old money but estranged from it. Left to his own devices. 

Last semester he studied exclusively after dark. Those were her first memories of Ben. Shivering in the corner of the cafeteria, glaring at Finn when he laughed too loud.

Drunk over her pizza, Rey called out to him once. Coming off as harsh, cruel maybe. Wondering what his deal was, why the secrecy. 

The answer he gave was painfully obvious; he couldn’t afford textbooks, so he stole his roommate’s while he slept. 

For that he was evicted from the single apartments, placed on academic probation and branded as dishonest. The incident further discredited his research about food and neurotransmitters, which not even the professor understood.

Back in August Rey was allocated a research stipend. Ben just has his class of freshmen, brutal and heckling. Calling him words she caught him Googling, wiping tears in the dark.

Scrolling through the browser history on the laptop she loans him, reading-

_Skeletor. Castaway. Masochist._

Like a list of reasons why he's silent, nervous and withdrawn. 

\---

Except what's sexiest about Ben is his inherent pain. Like a boat set adrift, a broken toy or an injured bunny. She just wants to kiss it better.

He pads into the kitchen steeped in it. 

Tugging at his holey thigh-highs, the socks Rey got him for his birthday. After seeing there were no packages for him downstairs, no messages on the answering machine. 

Blushing, explaining through his surprise, _well you're always cold, so._

While she cooks he can’t sit still. Settling on the sofa only to stand up and pace, saying-

“This is a lot of trouble to go to.”

Rey doesn’t stop stirring; everything rides on it.

“So you must be worth it,” she says. Like a suggestion, a hope softened around the edges by time. “Maybe you'll believe that someday.”

\---

Waiting for the risotto to cool she rolls a joint, practiced on the coffee table. Licking the edges so Ben looks away, pretending the TV caught his attention.

“Smoke with me,” she begs, leading him to her room. Opening the rickety window, bringing him the same threadbare afghan for warmth. 

Her space is a patent wreck, the opposite of neat. Rey identifies as a maximalist. Holding onto every handwritten card, every scrap of paper. 

Writing and writing in endless journals scattered all around. On the bookshelves, the floor and mattress. Some still open to pages covered in drawings of snow, of coffee and Finn’s lips.

Rey explains as she sparks, ashing into the night, that it’s in case she disappears. 

“The day my mom died felt like the end of knowing her. Standing over her body with her face fresh in my head. I thought it would only be downhill from there, that as soon as I left the hospital I'd start to forget. Except she kept a diary. So I get to spend more time with her now than before.”

Rey closes her eyes, inhaling hard. Choking out-

“My dad was a violin busker. She didn’t even know his last name.” 

“That has to hurt.”

“No way. Don’t you see? It’s beautiful. He’s oblivious; he never had a chance to hurt me.”

"Are you looking for him?”

“Not anymore. I’m too attached to the dream.”

Ben knows the feeling. Staring at her chapped lips, shaking his head sadly as the joint’s offered. 

“I’m scared; I’ll cough my lungs out.”

“Here,” she says. “Lean in.”

Rey takes a hit. Gripping his chin, angling it towards her. The smoke goes down his throat, overpowering and spicy and warm.

For the briefest second, Rey’s mouth presses to his.

Desire runs rampant at the taste. It’s like before but concentrated. Suffused with love so strong his cock jumps. So good his hands go to the sides of the computer chair, nails digging in the leather. 

Whoever Rey cares for, it’s unbearable. 

It involves reading sonnets in the bath, harping to Finn over text, _you'll never guess what he said._ Blowing kisses at closed doors. Drawing delicate hands that end up in her journal next to paragraphs.

She wants to get on her knees and reassure someone they’re beautiful beyond words. That it's safe to be where they are. 

Ben breaks away. Blindsided, torn by bitterness.

She’s staring, legs apart on the stool. Always so intense, so exposed it makes his chest ache.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asks. 

“Not anymore,” Rey says. “Feel it?”

\---

He does.

There’s no body high, no sense of dizziness or impairment. Just an insatiable hunger that causes him to eat and eat. 

Devouring risotto and salad and brownies until Rey stops him, leading Ben to the sofa. 

Changing the channel to his favorite show, _How It’s Made_. For Rey it’s boring, almost too informational to be considered entertainment. 

Only now she associates it with him. With the flickering light of the screen on his face deep into the night, illuminating his odd habit of taking notes. 

“Why does this fascinate you?”

On screen a mechanical vat of peanut butter churns itself. Massive, mesmerizing in its quantity. Rey wonders how many rat hairs are allowed in it, altogether.

“Because this is where food comes from.”

“Food comes from the supermarket, don’t you know that?”

Ben persists, refusing to take the joke. 

“Seriously. It matters.”

“Tell me why.”

A million fuckups have taught her that this is prying, absurd and bound to end badly. Except there’s something weird going on. A vast, inescapable magic at the edge of everything. 

Ben shimmers with it, sharper and more attune than anyone in her life. 

“I’m just nuts,” he says. Deflecting, gesturing to the TV. 

Rey doesn’t take the bait. Instead she lets it rest between them, becoming more and more ridiculous until he relents.

“I can taste emotions. So the only safe food is stuff no one’s touched.” 

“What about my food?”

“Yours is different.”

“Why?” 

“It tastes nice.”

“Nice how?”

“I don’t know, Rey.”

Still, she presses on. Taking his curled fist, clasping it to her chest until it unfurls. As it does Ben cracks, quietly starting to cry.

Rey mutes the TV.

“Tell me.” 

His hand goes to her cheek, to the strands of hair falling from her braid. Rey leans into the touch, lets it guide her to his lap. 

She's cradled by the blanket and the warmth of his thighs pressed together. She feels his erection and longs shamefully to rub her mouth on it. If only to try to taste what he does, to understand the depth of everything so clearly.

"Please?" she asks.

“Tell me first. Who are you in love with?”

“No one,” Rey says. 

Then, softly-

“You.”

  
\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: marijuana use, as tagged ED stuff / brief mentions of parental death; grieving


	3. lipstick marks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter tw: past mentions of bullying

Ben hates potlucks. 

Except this time Rey approaches him the night before, asking softly, “What should I make?”

It takes everything to turn her away. Deflecting, explaining again that it’s just a coincidence. Not all food is what it’s supposed to be. She doesn’t have to pretend to love him for the sake of taste. 

“Alright, okay,” she says. “I won’t.”

Still, she walks into the conference room with two dishes. Telling the professor evenly, _Sorry, you know Ben. Too brilliant for life. He forgot his on the counter._

Snatching his plate while they stand together in the buffet line, plastic fork tucked up her sleeve. Raising the foil to show him what she brought. 

What he finds is an insult to casserole paired with a jello that looks alive. He thinks she added olives just to be perverse. 

“Apparently it’s inadvisable to experiment at one of these,” Rey says. “But I think you might like it.”

He does.

The room goes quiet as he stands, going back for thirds. Piling his plate with what no one else wanted until Rey comes over, discreetly taking the spoon from his hands. Squeezing his fingers tight. 

“Easy,” she says. “It’s like you’ve never tasted food before.”

\---

“What were you thinking?” 

“Of you.”

She walks out ahead, heels loud on the sidewalk. Turning back to smile, pulling on Ben’s jacket until he follows. Buzzing him into the lobby with her keycard, hand warm on his back. 

“You were thinking about sex.”

“Wrong,” Rey says, throwing their mail in the trash. “Close though.”

“Tell me.”

“No way.” The elevator lurches and Ben leans against the wall. Closing his eyes, letting his lips fall open. Pushing his hips forward to show his erection, searching for what he felt.

“You’re the one stealing my socks. You told Finn you felt safe here, and you miss me.”

“You haven’t talked in sentences since I told you."

“What do I say? You’re wrong. Don’t love me. It’s a trap.”

As soon as they’re inside Rey kicks her shoes off. Sprinting to his bedroom door, grabbing the handle before he can retreat.

“Don’t run from this.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’re not,” she says. They struggle and her purse hits the wall. The door slams. His hands go to her face. “I _know_ you.”

“You say that.”

“I trust you to know me.”

“Get out of my head.” 

“Take control,” she says. "Just over a part of me. Please?"

\---

It starts with her feet in his lap, pointing out sketches. Reading lines from the past like _Finn said_ _he’s afraid of people_ and _maybe no one gets it._

Impressing on Ben that this isn’t her first try. 

“You asked to get coffee?”

“You don’t hear me when I talk,” she says. “Is everything else that loud?”

“Yes.”

“Here,” Rey says. “Try it for a second.”

She pulls the ribbon from the belt of her dress, taking his wrists. Tying them in a loose bow. Letting the knot fall open, freeing him. Giving her hands instead. 

It takes Ben no hesitation to accept.

Still he’s trembling, brows knit. Bringing her into his lap, lifting her arms over his head to kiss. They stare inches apart. 

“It goes both ways,” she says. “All I taste is want.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s vicious. Take it back.”

She asks him to strip, giving specific instructions. Telling him, “Touch yourself,” pretending she can’t with her hands together. 

Waiting until he listens to crawl forward, nosing his cold fingers away. Pressing her face to his hip, breathing deep. Licking a line down his belly, putting sharp teeth on his cock.

Knowing it’s pain. Asking him how it feels until he whispers, “So good.” Embarrassed, agonized to be exposed. 

She tastes him in front of the others, changing after gym. Clammy shorts around his thighs. Ribs bumping the locker. Smashed against it repeatedly until he caved, running for the stalls. 

Coming home to a sink full of dishes and the sound of company. Eyes red, wanting only to be included. Not moving, not breathing as he took the steps one by one. 

Waiting for someone to call him back down.

“Ben,” she says. “Look at me.”

He tries. Taking in her messy hair, her wet lips. The way her body’s curled around his cock, making room for it in her mouth. Rolling her tastebuds over the tip.

“I feel you everywhere you've been,” she says. “And that’s not going away.”

\---

Time unfurls on months that stretch and break with longing. They kiss until he’s standing outside. Clothes in trash bags, hair over his eyes. Asking Rey, _what are you smiling about?_ before he even knew her name.

He comes as her hips fall down on him, eyes squeezed shut. Hands balled in fists, panting. Apologizing profusely, telling Rey not to stop. He can go again.

Failing to realize she’s lost. Spiraling down a litany of sunrises, wet dreams and roller coasters and playing with the showerhead. Pinpricks of water on her cheeks as she comes.

Knowing the first time he thought about her was in the next room, separated by a paper-thin wall. Knocking his head against it, mouthing the tile she touched. 

After Ben falls to the floor, dragging her over the mattress to his face. Taking her trapped hands and pulling, tugging hard on his hair. 

Saying, “show me,” as her thighs fall open.

\---

He still has to walk alone. Afraid no one will show and Ben’s right, his family isn’t at graduation.

Except he’s wearing a hundred strands of Mardi Gras beads. Homemade flower crowns and lipstick marks.

From the back of the auditorium, Rey screams his name.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is inspired in some part by the brilliant novel The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake by Aimee Bender, which follows protagonist Rose who tastes "absence, hunger, spiraling, hollows" in her mother's cake.
> 
> *FAQ:  
> Are you writing from experience?  
> More or less.
> 
> Do you think this a joke?  
> Hell no. 
> 
> Are you open to suggestions on how to treat the topic?  
> Always.


End file.
